The Poetry Marathon

I used to
spill the words,
effortlessly pouring.

Sometimes they’d slosh,
unexpectedly,
over the edge.

Now I’ve
stoppered them up.
The bottle sweats.

Pressure builds
whenever shaken.
Wait. Don’t Open. Else the words will

Erupt.

I thought
Fog, mist
Waterislife had finally come,
But no.

It is beautiful death,
The sun startling red,
sitting heavy in the haze.
I can taste the blood in the smoke.

We kill ourselves slowly
Each other quickly
Drip drip at the gas pump.
Drop drop the dirt on us, and be done.

I’m Des and will be participating in the half marathon. Been writing poetry since I was 7. Ex-mormon feminist, nonbinary (she or they), have Selective Mutism, crusader against adultism, and…that’s about all I feel like saying right now.